


Together On This Lonely March

by tabine



Category: Fire Emblem Series
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:03:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabine/pseuds/tabine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and ficlets in no particular order spanning the various game-verses of the FE franchise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Enamor Me", Tethys and any lady — prompt requested by tumblr user **tateyuri**.

_enamor me: a [fluffy] drabble characters trying to woo one another_

* * *

Before the war, the only dances Tana has any familiarity with are the traditional Frelian waltzes and a handful of Renaitian ballroom classics. But as she travels with the rest of the company in the wake of the havoc wreaked by the puppets of the Demon King, crossing over the borders of lands she has only studied and heard tales of within the safety of sturdy castle walls of mortar and stone, and with people she only ever imagined meeting in her dreams, she comes to learn of others as well — the deadly duets between blade and spear-point on bloodstained sands, and those of acrobatic mastery and no small amount of fearlessness conducted upon the back of pegasi and wyverns high above burning battlefields. Yet even in the cruelty and harshness of war, Tana learns of softer, kinder dances as well, of gentle ballets and lively jigs with comrades and friends around the fire in the cool desert nights, and though she refrains from dancing at first (she's so certain she'll make a fool of herself — Tana isn't the most gainly or coordinated princess, after all, especially on the dance floor) when a pair of strong, gentle hands pull Tana to her feet and guide her around the firelight, she finds that the steps aren't as foreign and strange to her as she'd imagined.

But her favorite of the dances Tana has come to learn over the course of their travels are the ones she shares with the owner of those same hands as the make elegant gestures in the air, the knowing look her kohl-rimmed eyes give Tana from across the camp, and the way those teasing lips always leave her shivering and yearning for more, and Tana tells herself that when this war is finally, _finally_ over, she will ask Tethys for a proper dance.


	2. Chapter 2

Based on a prompt for Ephraim/Tethys as requested by tumblr user **velthomer**.

* * *

From the moment she first sees him, Tethys finds herself inexplicably drawn to Renais's young prince — or rather, she supposes, its young king — for reason she cannot quite understand. It does not give her cause for any particular concern, of course, particularly given the fact that other, more pressing concerns (staying alive for another day, for example) tend to take foremost importance in her thoughts, but the matter continues to linger at the back of her mind, and she finds herself expressing them to Gerik late one evening, long after everyone else has retired for the night. The mercenary chief's only response is to look down at Tethys for a few moments, expression unreadable in the dark, before pulling her closer to his body and enveloping her further with his warmth.

"He comes from a long line of kings," he tells her, "a natural born leader and commander. His sister is the same, too. Maybe because they're twins...?" The question trails off, unfinished and unanswered, and Gerik shifts so that his head is more comfortably pillowed by his arm. "Not bad on the eyes, either. Both of them."

Tethys ponders it for a moment. Gerik's explanation makes sense, she decides after a few moments; she's seen a similar sense of command in Prince Innes and his sister, as well as Jehanna's vagabond king. "I suppose you're right," she murmurs, inhaling Gerik's unique scent of sweat and oiled leather and metal (and something else she has never quite been able to place) as she relaxes in his embrace, and it is only when the camp wakes before daybreak a scant few hours later that Tethys remembers there was something else she had wanted to talk to Gerik about as well.

She waits impatiently for another opportunity to bring up the topic, but the chance never presents itself, and in the end, it turns out to matter little — she had always known that war was no place or time for a woman to be with child, and in a way she is relieved, despite the pain, despite the blood, despite the grief of yet another child lost. Gerik too, she knows, felt that sorrow just as keenly as she does, and at the first moment Sister Natasha leaves the two of them to their privacy, kindly guiding Ewan away from the medical tent under some pretense or another, Tethys presses her lips to Gerik's softly, gently, as if each kiss will heal the multitude of physical scars crisscrossing across his rugged frame, and the emotional ones bound tightly to his sinew and bone and wrapped tightly about his heart. "It's better this way," she tells him. "Maybe later, after this is all over, we can try again."

Gerik returns the gesture of affection, taking her hands into his own, brushing his own lips across her knuckles. "You're right. We can only hope."

But hope, it seems, is a rare commodity in these strange, tumultuous times, and with it the smile and fortune of Lady Luck as well. Tethys has always joked that it was because she had been born under an unlucky star that her life had taken its own unique path of twists and turns, but that mirth is no where to be found when she and Marisa gather tinder and wood for a crude pyre, and Ewan, with his Master's quiet, solemn presence for support, whispers the incantation that sets the whole thing ablaze, heads bowed in respect and grief for a few minutes before duty summons them, and the pair moves on to the next body.

"They all fought valiantly, and with honor; the least we can do is give them a hero's farewell." Those had been Prince — no, _King_ Ephraim's words in the eerily silent calm that had followed that final battle. His gaze is hard, face forced into an expressionless mask, though it is obvious to all those present that his sorrow is as real as any of theirs. "We won't dishonor them by allowing vermin to scavenge and feast on the warriors who helped bring about the end of the Demon King."

In the flurry of activity that follows that final battle, Tethys discovers that she has lost all sense of time and being. Sister Natasha, bless her, is kind enough to help however she can, and even Marisa's normally taciturn ways have become softer, more accommodating; Tethys knows that Marisa had also loved the chief, once, and yet while the sword master may have empathized with her grief, the other woman still did not _understand_.

Once again, Tethys finds herself drawn toward Renais's young king. The war has taken its toll on him — his face has become sunken, the self-assured expression they had all come to associate with him faded and follow, and in the course of the few days it took for the remainder of their party to leave the shadows of the Darkling Woods, it seemed he had aged by well over a decade. He is still handsome, yet now in a way that is now haunted and strange, and would not allow one to look away from him easily: the the vigor and whimsy of the living replaced by the cold, enticing allure of the dead. It sounds poetic, at least, when put in such terms, but Tethys recognizes it as the almost-kin of the face she saw whenever she caught a glimpse of her own reflection after Gerik's death.

It is as if she is a moth drawn to flame — or, perhaps, it is merely understanding, recognition of her suffering from a kindred spirit, that Tethys craves, and nothing more. Or, perhaps, there _is_ more to it after all, though Tethys hardly knows what it could truly be, yet it pushes her all the same to seek King Ephraim out one cool evening.

She is hardly surprised, then, when he places his hands on her shoulder, thumb tracing over her collarbone idly before it slides down her body and settles on her waist before pulling her closer, nor is she surprised when he kisses her, almost hesitantly.

"You smell like lavender," he tells her softly. "Lavender and ink and parchment."

"My brother, your majesty," Tethys informs him. "I've been helping him with his books."

The king nods slowly, and she knows his thoughts are far away, in a different time and a different place, under very different circumstances and with a different person. "I like it."

"I'm glad," is her reply, and Tethys supposes that she may as well allow her heart to do the same.


End file.
